Back to Basics

We have now been officially living without our own furniture for two weeks. Just a fortnight ago, our home was raided by a small army of cackling Cypriot ladies armed with cardboard boxes, packing tape and marker pens. For four hours our home resonated with the rustle of brown packing paper and the unmistakeable teeth-scraping wrench of rolls of tape being unravelled, sliced and adhered to boxes. The arrival of the Pack of Packers was the culmination of several prior days of preparation during which our worldly goods were categorised into one of three piles – Keep It, Bin It or Sell It.  This may have been a relatively straightforward exercise had Fate not thrown us the sly curve-ball of scheduling the first phase of our house move to occur during the Half Term school holidays. Yes – Half Term – two words which strike fear and trepidation into the heart of any parent, let alone those faced with the arduous task of placing our lives into a series of cardboard boxes. After all, what more could a parent ask for when faced with an exhausting and complicated house move than to be beset with endless requests for chocolate biscuits, frequent bickering matches and complaints of boredom?

And so, eventually, my darling children devised a way to entertain themselves......

As my hubby and I embarked upon the categorical removal of the mountains of tat and bric-a-brac which seemed to emerge from our wardrobes as if being continually replenished from the other side by some compulsive hoarding resident of Narnia, our offspring were set upon another task. Their challenge appeared to be some kind of reverse version of Jenga, whereupon they would nominate the most concealed and inaccessible object spotted amongst one of our three, carefully constructed piles.  The object of the game then appeared to be to extricate said item, whilst creating the largest avalanche of possessions. Extra points would be gained if the three piles became so inextricably confused that the whole process of categorization would have to begin again, and a further special bonus was awarded to the child who succeeded in traumatising the cat in the process.

There was more than one occasion where I looked wistfully at the larger child-size packing boxes whilst mentally calculating what size dose of Calpol would have the significant sedating effect to last a six-week container-ship journey.....Thankfully, on the day the packers arrived, some very kind friends of ours offered to have the kids at their home, thus saving our sanity and a lengthy explanation to Customs at the other side

And so, eventually, all the possessions we had deemed valuable enough to take back to the UK  had been placed in bubble-wrap and cardboard and our living room more closely resembled the underside of Waterloo Bridge than the place we had called home for the past 5 years.  It was then that it hit home to me that, yes, we really were doing it – we were going back home to the UK. It was a real moment of mixed feelings – sadness to be leaving the place that we have loved for so long and happiness that we were soon to be reunited with family and friends eagerly awaiting our return back to Blighty. Oh, and relief that the hard work was over, tinged with concern that all our valued possessions were to be trusted to burly removals men, who would toss our goods into a big metal box bound for a perilous journey across the Mediterranean.

So we are now in the Eye of the Storm, that eerily quiet moment between two tempestuous events, in our case – the packing and then the unpacking on the other side. Right now, we are suspended in Limbo, although as I survey our woefully empty house filled only with stuff we need to dispose of and the dreaded MOD-issue furniture and “Get You Out Pack”, perhaps our predicament is more akin to some form of Purgatory. I know I should be grateful for the provisions that have been offered us, but if the cushions fly off the highly-combustible nylon sofa one more time, generating enough static to power a small generator, I swear there will be blood. (and try getting those stains out of the ‘tasteful’ terracotta covers!).  And don’t get me started on the bed! Having temporarily exchanged our lovely, firm orthopaedic King-Size mattress and divan for a double-sized trampoline, my sleep-deprived sensibilities are a tinderbox requiring minimum provocation. I can’t even console myself with my statutory huge mug of coffee as all we have are dolls-house size teacups more suitable for a shot of espresso. Still, I should be grateful that the RAF have offered us anything at all as the dip in the temperatures here would not suffice for camping  (oh bugger, we packed the tent anyway!).

When the portentous Big Red Vans arrive outside your house here in Cyprus, you suddenly discover you have more friends than you initially realised, for word soon spreads that you are leaving. And, of course, the departure of folks heralds the possibility of freebies, as the occupants of the rapidly emptying house struggle to dispose of everything that couldn’t be fitted into their cubic metre allocation. It is not unusual to find yourself being approached by acquaintances who sidle up to you and skilfully steer the conversation to the items of garden furniture that they happen to have observed idling in the back garden, or the rusty tumble dryer that is conspicuously the only object remaining in your garage. Some folks will offer you money for your items, but the canny ones play the long game, waiting till you are desperate to shift the last vestiges of your Cyprus home-life, and are too weary to spend yet another hour on Facebook uploading pictures of unwanted possessions onto sales pages.  They then pounce ‘offering’ to ‘take that thing off your hands’  and you are simply so grateful to tick another item off the list, that you are past caring that you could have pocketed a sneaky 20 Euros if you’d held out a bit longer. But that is the Akrotiri way of life, some items of furniture have seen more homes than Kirstie  Allsopp, as family after family pass on the dubious herilooms of a sunshine posting.

So here we are now, on the five week countdown to D-Day, sitting in a house which echoes interminably, on a nasty sofa, listening to the kids storming around obstacle-free bedrooms. The next chapter of our adventure awaits, once the conundrum of the March-Out has been tackled.

But that’s for another day......